There really is a place in my register for you.
. . . . It’s too bad your heart has become
like a machine, counting shapes and sizes
. . . the way pornography rolls inside
. . the eyeballs of the habitual viewer
or maybe the way this sales assistant folds never-
worn shirts. One is lavender and the dye
. . . pools into the open areas of the terrible
shopping mall. To shout, “This is hell!”
. . . . . over children and samples of Chinese food.
That the shopping mall sits in the small
. . . . hand of the valley and that the valley
is filled with the cool, nameless skin
. . . of lovers walking away—oh world reptilian.